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POEMS. 


BY 


JAMES     T.    FIELDS. 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR   &    COMPANY. 

MDCCCXLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18-19,  by 

WILLIAM  D.  TICKSOR  AND  COMPANY, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 

THURSTOX,  TORHY  &   EMERSON, 
31  Uevun.hirc   Street. 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

THE  POST  OF  HONOR 1 

FAIR  WIND         .......     29 

ON  A  BOOK  OF  SEA  MOSSES    ....         31 

BALLAD  OF  THE  TEMPEST    .         .          .         .  .33 

SACO  FALLS    .......         35 

ON  A  PAIR  OF  ANTLERS      .         .         .         .  .37 

SLEIGHING  SONG     ......         39 

SUMMER  EVENING  MELODY  .          .         .  .41 

VILLAGER'S  WINTER-EVENING  SONG          .         .         42 

CHILDREN  IN  EXILE    .         .         .         .         .  .44 

A  VALENTINE          ......         47 

COMMON  SENSE  .  48 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE    DEAD          .......  50 

TO    A    FRIEND        .......       02 

DIRGE    FOR    A    YOUNG    GIRL  ....  54 

EVENTIDE  ........       56 

A    BRIDAL    MELODY   ......  07 

SONG  ........       53 

BROKEN    VOWS  ......  60 

BURIAL    OF    A    GERMAN    EMIGRANT'S    CHILD    AT    SEA      CO 
SONG        ........  64 

M.  W.  B.      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .66 

TO    ONE    BENEATH    THE    WAVES  ...  68 

TO    A    PAINTER     .......       "0 

TO    A    MALIGNANT    CRITIC  .  .  .  .  71 

A    WELCOME    TO    SAMUEL    LOVER  .  .  .73 

LIFE    AT    NIAGARA     .  .  .  .  .  .  75 

BALLAD    OF    THE    ALARMED    SKIPPER         .  .  .79 

COMMERCE  .  .  83 


THE   POST  OF   HONOR, 


PRONOUNCED    BEFORE    THE    DOS TON    MERCANTILE    LIBRARY 
ASSOCIATION,    NOVEMBER    ]5,    1848. 


THE  POST  OF  1IOXOR. 


WHEN  yon  old  tower  proclaims  the  impatient  Nine,1 
And  Temple  belles  to  homeward  nooks  incline,  — 
When  airs  are  still,  the  organ  pipes  laid  low, 
And  music's  stream  requested  not  to  flow,  — 
When  from  his  lips,  whose  mandates  all  obey, 
The  call  rings  out,  admitting  no  delay, — 
The  bard,  half  conscious,  rises  to  the  floor, 
And  eyes  the  distance  'tween  the  desk  and  door ; 
Ho  hoped  some  hand  might  kindly  interpose 
To  veil  the  audience  at  the  oration's  close, 
i 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

Some  beam  might  start,  some  sudden  false  alarm 
Might  snatch  a  victim  from  the  altar's  harm  ;  — 
But,  chained  a  captive  at  your  chariot  wheel, 
To  fail  just  now  were  hardly  mercantile  ; 
Promise  to  pay,  you  must  endure  the  shock  ;  — 
There  is  no  quarter  after  two  o'clock. 

No  bright  Aurora,  with  her  cheerful  smiles, 
The  evening  minstrel  on  his  way  beguiles  ;  — 
Child  of  the  Dawn,  she  bids  her  coursers  fly 
Through  rosier  blushes  to  the  morning  sky. 
While  thus  the  ringers  of  relentless  Time 
Hold  hard  and  heavy  at  the  reins  of  rhyme, 
Thy  leaden  wings,  O  sleep-compelling  power, 
I  hear  descending  from  their  shadowy  bower  ;  — 
Spare,  spare  thy  influence,  cease  thy  drowsy  calls 
A  few  brief  moments,  till  the  curtain  falls. 


In  boyhood's  hour  you  bade  my  fluttering  sail0 
Spread  its  light  canvas  to  the  morning  gale  ; 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

First,  at  your  summons,  with  averted  eye, 

I  felt  the  breeze  that  swept  my  pennant  by  ; 

I  heard  your  echoes  gathering  on  the  shore, 

As  then  I  launched  one  childish  pebble  more  ;  — 

Still  the  old  echoes  linger  in  my  brain, 

And  all  those  voices  seem  to  live  again, 

As  now  I  come,  with  more  than  boyhood's  fears, 

To  mark  the  dial  of  our  added  years. 

O,  more  than  favored,  could  I  meet  to-day 

The  smiles  that  cheered  my  dim  and  faltering  way  ; 

O,  more  than  blest,  could  I  recall  to-night 

Those  welcome  forms  that  met  my  dazzled  sight ; 

All  the  dear  faces,  all  the  buried  past, 

Too  bright  and  brief,  too  beautiful  to  last. 

Our  vanished  years  !  let  Memory's  muffled  bell 
Toll  but  one  requiem,  and  but  one  farewell, 
For  him  whose  eyelids  in  a  wintry  grave  3 
Were  closed  in  anguish  by  the  icy  wave. 
.Rest,  early  friend,  bemoaned  in  life's  young  bloom, 
Gone,  like  a  shadow,  to  the  voiceless  tomb. 


4  THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

When  last  we  climbed  to  yon  high,  leafy  crest 
To  watch  the  sunlight  fading  in  the  west, 
Ah,  little  thought  I  that  this  hand  would  trace 
These  words  of  grief  above  thy  burial-place. 
Thou  hast  our  tears  ;  but  lo !  the  clouds  depart, 
Our  brother  sleeps  with  sunshine  on  his  heart ; 
The  storm  has  passed,  the  seas  are  silent  now, 
And  Heaven's  sweet  smile  has  settled  on  his  brow. 

Our  added  years  !    What  though  to  these  we  bow, 
Farewell  the  Past !    All  hail  the  eventful  Now  ! 
What  though  grave  fathers,  still  my  friends,  I  meet, 
Whose  nursery  floors  are  worn  with  little  feet, — 
What  though,  companion  of  my  former  years, 
Thy  face  at  market  every  morn  appears, 
While  I,  still  ignorant  as  the  greenest  baize 
What  "  goods  domestic"  go  the  greatest  ways, 
Grope  blindly  homeward  to  my  noontide  meal, 
Unknowing  what  my  damask  may  reveal ;  — 
Heart  leaps  to  heart,  and  warmer  grasps  the  hand, 
When  Autumn's  bugle  re-unites  our  band  ! 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

That  "  virtue  only  makes  our  bliss  below, 
And  all  our  knowledge  is  ourselves  to  know," 
We  read  at  school,  in  unforgotten  lines, 
Where  sterling  sense  in  sparkling  couplets  shines ; 
My  theme  to-night  thy  glittering  muse  demands, 
Who  touched  life's  follies  with  unsparing  hands, 
Or  thine,  Urania,  skilled  to  sweep  the  lyre  4 
With  all  Pope's  freedom,  and  with  Campbell's  fire. 

Star  of  the  heart !  the  eagle's  sunward  plume  ! 
Wild  meteor,  dancing  in  the  midnight  gloom, 
Ambition's  goal,  that  oft  delusive  dream, 
The  Post  of  Honor,  is  my  chosen  theme. 
Its  ampler  range  eludes  my  hurrying  sight, 
I  can  but  hover,  others  may  alight ;  — 
Though  far  and  wide  the  gleaming  standard  flies, 
Wings  dipt  like  mine  can  dare  no  upper  skies. 
But,  though  I  come  not  with  presuming  hand 
To  scatter  precepts,  like  a  housewife's  sand, — 


O  THE    POST    OF    IIONOK. 

Virtue's  assassin,  slander's  bosom  friend, 
No  verse  of  mine  can  flatter  or  commend. 
The  humblest  muse  should  claim  the  lionest  line, 
And  swing  no  censer  at  corruption's  shrine  ; 
Unmoved  by  fear,  should  act  no  traitor's  part, 
Wear  on  her  face  the  dial  of  her  heart, 
And  dash  aside,  no  matter  who  may  hold 
The  poisoned  chalice,  though  'twere  made  of  gold. 
Truth,  ever  sacred,  counts  that  victory  shame 
Which  clarions  meanness  to  a  world's  acclaim  ; 
Scorns  the  proud  wretch  who  plays  the  fatal  dart, 
But,  while  he  dallies,  drives  it  to  the  heart ; 
Shuns  the  weak  fool,  whose  eager  gaze  descries 
His  neighbor's  faults  with  telescopic  eyes  ; 
Believes  high  rogues,  though  clad  in  jewels  brave, 
Should  run  the  gantlet  with  the  shabbiest  knave,  — 
While  Honoris  Post  should  be  for  him  secure 
Who  lets  in  sunshine  at  the  poor  man's  door. 

Unchanging  Power !  thy  genius  still  presides 
O'er  vanquished  fields,  and  ocean's  purpled  tides  ; 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 


Sits  like  a  spectre  at  the  soldier's  board, 
Adds  Spartan  steps  to  many  a  broken  sword  ;  5 
For  thee  and  thine  combining  squadrons  form 
To  sweep  the  world  with  Glory's  awful  storm  ; 
The  intrepid  warrior  shouts  thy  deathless  name, 
And  plucks  new  valor  from  thy  torch  of  fame  ; 
For  him  the  bell  shall  wake  its  loudest  song, 
For  him  the  cannon's  thunder  echo  long, 
For  him  a  nation  weave  the  unfading  crown, 
And  swell  the  triumph  of  his  sweet  renown. 
So  Nelson  watched,  long  ere  Trafalgar's  days, 6 
Thy  radiant  orb,  prophetic  Glory,  blaze,  — 
Saw  Victory  wait,  to  weep  his  bleeding  scars, 
And  plant  his  breast  with  Honor's  burning  stars. 
So  the  young  hero,  with  expiring  breath, 
Bequeathes  fresh  courage  in  the  hour  of  death, 
Bids  his  brave  comrades  hear  the  inspiring  blast, 
And  nail  their  colors,  dauntless,  to  the  mast ; 
Then  dies,  like  Lawrence,  trembling  on  his  lip 
That  cry  of  Honor,  "  Do  n't  give  up  the  ship  !  " 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

Pageant  of  light,  dissolving  into  air,  — 
Thou  glittering  folly,  seeming  only  fair, 
What  myriad  insects,  crowding  to  the  flarne, 
Die  in  the  arena,  cheated  of  thy  name  ! 

Go  mark  its  influence  o'er  each  scene  of  life, 
Your  neighbor  feels  it,  and  your  neighbor's  wife  ; 
He  o'er  Columbia's  District  sees  it  shine, 
While  she,  more  modest,  thinks  a  coach  divine. 
"  Be  rich,  and  ride,"  the  buxom  lady  cries,  — 
"  Be  famous,  John,"  his  answering  heart  replies  ; 
"  The  golden  portals  of  the  Chamber  wait 
To  give  thee  entrance  at  the  next  debate ; 
Get  votes,  get  station,  and  the  goal  is  won, 
Shine  in  the  Senate,  and  eclipse  the  sun  ; 
Quadrennial  glory  shall  compensate  toil, 
The  feast  of  office,  and  the  flow  of  spoil." 

Poor  child  of  Fancy,  party's  candidate, 
Born  of  a  caucus,  what  shall  be  thy  fate  ! 
Nursed  by  a  clique,  perplexed  I  see  thee  stand, 
Holding  a  letter  in  thy  doubtful  hand  ;  — 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

It  comes  with  questions  that  demand  replies, 

Important,  weighty,  relevant,  and  wise. 

"  Respected  Sir,"  the  sheet  of  queries  runs, 

In  solid  phalanx,  like  election  buns, — 

"  Respected  Sir,  we  humbly  beg  to  know 

Your  mind  on  matters  that  we  name  below ; 

Be  firm,  consistent,  that  is,  if  you  can  ; 

The  country  rocks,  and  we  must  know  our  man. 

And  first,  What  think  you  of  the  Northern  Lights, 

And  is  it  fatal  when  a  mad  dog  bites  ? 

Do  you  allow  your  corn  to  mix  with  peas, 

And  can  you  doubt  the  moon  is  one  with  cheese  ? 

If  all  your  young  potatoes  should  decease, 

What  neighbor's  patch  would  you  incline  to  fleece  ? 

When  Lot's  slow  help-meet  made  that  foolish  halt, 

Was  she  half  rock,  or  only  table  salt  ? 

And  had  the  ark  run  thumping  on  the  stumps, 

Would  you,  if  there,  have  aided  at  the  pumps  ? 

Do  you  approve  of  men  who  stick  to  pills, 

Or  aqueous  pilgrims  to  Vermont's  broad  hills? 


10  THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

Do  you  mark  Friday  darkest  of  the  seven  : 
Do  you  believe  that  white  folks  go  to  Heaven  ? 
Do  you  imbibe  brown  sugar  in  your  tea  • 
Do  you  spell  Congress  with  a  K  or  C  r 
Will  you  eat  oysters  in  the  month  of  June, 
And  soup  and  sherbet  with  a  fork  or  spoon  ? 
Towards  what  amusement  docs  your  fancy  lean  ? 
Do  you  believe  in  France  or  Lamartine  ? 
Shall  you  at  church  eight  times  a  month  be  found, 
Or  only  absent  when  the  box  goes  round  ? 
Should  Mr.  Speaker  ask  you  out  to  dine, 
Will  you  accept,  or  how  would  you  decline  ? 
In  case  a  comet  should  our  earth  impale, 
Have  you  the  proper  tongs  to  seize  his  tail  ? 
For  early  answers  we  would  make  request,  — 
Weigh  well  the  topics,  calmly  act  your  best, 
Show  us  your  platform,  how  you  mean  to  tread, 
Plump  on  your  feet,  or  flat  upon  your  head  ; 
If  your  opinions  coincide  with  ours, 
We  delegate  to  you  the  proper  powers. 


THE    TOST    OF    HONOR.  11 

N.  B.  —  No  bribes  ;  the  postage  you  must  pay 
From  this  to  Boston,  and  the  other  way. 
A  Postscript,  private.  —  If  we  all  agree, 
The  undersigned  expect  the  usual  fee  ; 
And  if  you  publish  in  the  Western  Bull, 
Pray  do  n't  forget  to  print  our  names  in  full." 

The  ambitious  guardian  of  the  errant  swine, 
(Sometimes  named  hog-reeve  by  the  sacred  Nine,) 
Think  you  no  sighs  his  anxious  breast  denote, 
Should  chance  divest  him  of  his  party's  vote  ?  — 
Alas  !  he  cries,  with  Wolscy  in  the  play, 
"  Farewell,  my  greatness  !    Honor  swept  away  !  " 
And  feels,  beneath  that  recreant  party's  frown, 
A  pang  as  great  as  when  a  king  goes  down. 

The  country  curate,  quoting  Greek  for  gold, 
Sees  it  resplendent  o'er  some  distant  fold  ; 
His  reverend  locks,  just  turned  of  twenty-two, 
Need  other  perfumes  than  a  Cape  Ann  dew  ;  — 


12  THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

Her  ampler  arms  a  City  church  extends, 

He  '11  be  more  useful  there,  he  tells  his  friends  ; 

He  feels  distressed,  he  goes  with  many  a  tear, 

But  yearns  to  practise  in  a  wider  sphere,  — 

AVhich,  to  interpret  in  a  carnal  sense, 

Means  a  receipt  of  pounds  instead  of  pence. 

Go,  worldly  prophet !  duty  fling  aside, 

Your  heart  is  Mammon's,  and  your  worship  Pride  ; 

Ready  to  skulk  when  Progress  might  be  taught, 

Go  hunt  the  Ibis  of  Egyptian  thought,  — 

Leave  Heaven  for  Tarshish,  and  you  can't  but  fail, 

For  every  Jonah  always  finds  his  whale. 

From  pride  of  place  his  favor  Honor  turns, 
And  station  only  from  his  list  he  spurns. 
At  a  late  conference  on  a  Hebrew  word, 
A  Worcester  blacksmith  beat  an  English  lord  ; 
Think  you  he  stooped,  around  that  brow  to  bind 
The  waitins  laurel  due  a  titled  mind  ? 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR.  13 

No !  "Scots  wha  Aae"  first  thrilled  with  memories  wild 

The  throbbing  bosom  of  a  ploughman's  child, 

And  Ayr  and  Avon  glide  as  gently  still, 

Though  Burns  and  Shakspeare  top  the  immortal  hill. 

Yon  fountain  Nymph,  now  sparkling  through  the  trees,7 
In  humble  Natick  wooed  the  mountain  breeze  ; 
There,  'mid  the  torrent,  nursed  in  thunders  loud 
From  the  dark  bosom  of  the  stormy  cloud, 
Or  gentlier  fed,  when  Summer's  showery  train 
In  drops  of  music  poured  the  welcome  rain, 
Her  lot  was  cast,  content  to  glide  along, 
Lulled  by  the  ripple  of  her  own  sweet  song. 
The  Indian  maids,  her  playmates,  passed  away, 
And  still  she  waited  for  a  brighter  day, 
Till,  all  matured,  she  rose  at  Duty's  call, 
And  stepped  a  Naiad  in  her  charmed  hall,  — 
Sprang,  crowned  with  grace,  the  monarch  Elm  beside, 
And  stood  in  radiant  light  his  young  enchanted  bride. 

Be  great  like  Murray,  but  like  Murray  feel, 
And  thrice  like  him  refuse  the  proffered  seal ; 


14  THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

Rome's  cautious  bard,  of  verse  the  lyric  sage,  8 
Wrote  fuge  magna  on  his  glowing  page. 
Greatness  avoid  !  the  throne  has  pangs  to  hide 
That  only  lurk  where  kings  and  crowns  abide. 
Swing  from  the  Common  in  your  own  balloon, 
You  may  reach  Marshfield  in  the  afternoon ; 
But  many  a  bog  'twixt  here  and  Marshfield  lies, 
And  gas  may  leak,  and  water  fill  your  eyes. 

All  are  not  born  the  glory  of  their  race, 
But  all  may  shun  the  pathway  to  disgrace  ; 
In  humblest  vales  the  patriot  heart  may  glow  ; 
That  nurtures  men  —  they  give  the  inspiring  blow. 
Point  back  to  heroes  battling  for  the  right, 
To  modest  martyrs  dying  out  of  sight, 
When  low-born  cowards  loitered  in  the  dust, 
And  when  't  was  honored  to  be  brave  and  just ; 
When  gray-haired  age  with  reverend  footsteps  trod, 
And  when  sweet  childhood  learned  to  worship  God  ; 
When  truth  was  sacred,  and  when  men  were  rare 
WTho  bartered  Faith  for  nothing  and  Voltaire. 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR.  15 

But  does  our  pathway  e'er  conduct  to  fame  ? 
The  Merchant's  honor  is  his  spotless  name ; 
Not  circumscribed,  just  narrowed  to  the  rank 
That  passes  current  only  at  the  Bank, 
But  stamped  with  soul,  howe'er  the  winds  may  blow, 
Large  as  the  sunlight,  and  unstained  as  snow. 
Do  good  by  stealth,  be  just,  have  faith  in  man  ; 
The  rest  to  Heaven,  God  always  in  the  van,  — 
Though  silent  deeds  may  find  no  tongue  to  bless 
Through  the  loud  trumpet  of  the  public  press. 

Honors,  'tis  true,  from  no  condition  rise, 
Stick  to  your  calling,  there  the  profit  lies  ; 
What  man  has  sown,  just  what  he  reaps  denotes, 
Expect  no  pearl-ash  from  a  crop  of  votes ; 
Oil  and  Cochituate  never  yet  would  mix  ; 
You  can 't  pay  rents  and  retail  politics. 

Consult  your  means,  avoid  the  tempter's  wiles, 
Shun  grinning  hosts  of  unreceipted  files, 


16  THE    TOST    OF    HONOR. 

Let  Heaven-eyed  Prudence  battle  with  Desire, 
And  win  the  victory,  though  it  be  through  fire. 
Go  swim  at  Newport  to  come  home  and  sink 
When  the  grim  Notary  drags  you  to  the  brink  ; 
Play  with  old  ocean,  wanton  as  you  will, 
Time  writes  no  wrinkles  on  a  six  months'  bill. 

Where  lies  true  Honor  ?    Turn  the  glass  once  more , 
A  few  brief  pictures,  and  the  scene  is  o'er,  — 
All  the  procession  may  not  pass  to-night ; 
Enough  if  sketches  show  my  purpose  right. 

The  painter's  skill  life's  lineaments  may  trace, 
And  stamp  the  impress  of  a  speaking  face ; 
The  chisel's  touch  may  make  that  marble  warm 
Which  glows  with  all  but  breathing  manhood's  form, — 
But  deeper  lines,  beyond  the  sculptor's  art, 
Are  those  which  write  their  impress  on  the  heart. 

On  Talfourd's  page  what  bright  memorials  glow  9 
Of  all  that 's  noblest,  gentlest,  best  below  ! 


THE   POST    OF    HOXOR.  17 

Thou  generous  brother,  guard  of  griefs  concealed, 

Matured  by  sorrow,  deep  but  unrevcaled, 

Let  me  but  claim,  for  all  thy  vigils  here, 

The  noiseless  tribute  to  a  heart  sincere. 

Though  Dryburgh's  walls  still  hold  their  sacred  dust, 

And  Stratford's  chancel  shrines  its  hallowed  trust, 

To  Elia's  grave  the  pilgrim  shall  repair, 

And  hang  with  love  perennial  garlands  there. 

And  thou,  great  Bard  of  never-dying  name,  'lo 
Thy  filial  care  outshines  the  poet's  fame  ; 
For  who,  that  wanders  by  the  dust  of  Gray 
While  memory  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
But  lingers  fondly  at  the  hallowed  tomb, 
That  shrouds  a  parent  in  its  pensive  gloom, 
To  bless  the  son  who  poured  that  gushing  tear, 
So  warm  and  earnest,  at  a  mother's  bier ! 

Wreaths  for  that  line  which  Woman's  tribute  gave, 
"  Last  at  the  cross,  and  earliest  at  the  grave." 
Can  I  forget,  a  Pilgrim  o'er  the  sea, 
The  countless  shrines  of  Woman's  charity  ? 
2 


18  THE    POST    OF    IIONOK. 

In  thy  gay  capital,  bewildering  France, 

Where  Pleasure's  shuttle  weaves  the  whirling  dance, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  St.  Mary's  dome, 

Where  pallid  suffering  seeks  and  finds  a  home, 

Methinks  I  see  that  sainted  sister  now  n 

Wipe  Death's  cold  dew-drops  from  an  infant's  brow  ; 

Can  I  forget  that  mild,  seraphic  grace 

With  heaven-eyed  Patience  meeting  in  her  face  ? 

Ah,  sure,  if  angels  leave  celestial  spheres, 

We  saw  an  angel  dry  a  mortal's  tears. 

'T  was  thine,  Jerome,  when  shuddering  nature  cried  12 
For  aid  and  rescue  from  the  burning  tide, 
'Twas  thine,  with  vigorous  arm,  and  manly  breath, 
To  leap  through  danger,  and  to  snatch  from  death  ;  — 
Though  prince  and  peer  assumed  their  noblest  mien, 
Thou  wert  the  Ocean  Monarch  of  that  scene. 

Where  e'er  his  camp-fires  glistened  on  the  sod, 
Humane  as  brave,  our  latest  Conqueror  trod ; 
Honored  not  most  when  flying  shaft  and  ball 
Swept  like  red  hail  on  Bucna  Vista's  wall, 


THE    POST    OF   HONOR.  19 

But  for  that  aid  a  foot-worn  soldier  found 
When  limping  wounded  o'er  the  bloody  ground, — 
"  My  steed  is  thine,"  the  pitying  hero  cried, 
And  lifted  up  a  brother  to  his  side. 

Slow  to  applaud,  our  pulses  rarely  bound 
When  Genius  walks  his  own  enchanted  ground, 
While  many  a  son,  though  hailed  in  distant  lands, 
Receives  no  chaplet  at  our  tardy  hands. 
Not  thus,  on  other  soil,  true  greatness  pines, 
Not  thus  old  age  to  poverty  declines ; 
See  WTorth  advanced,  and  power-compelling  Mind 
On  some  proud  hill-top  gloriously  enshrined, 
While  sterling  Merit  leaves  his  lowly  plain 
To  found  a  peerage,  dated  from  his  brain. 
Yet,  stern  old  shores,  still  on  thy  rocks  they  stand 
Who  guard  the  portals  of  our  native  land ! 
Our  Country  first,  their  glory  and  their  pride, 
Land  of  their  hopes,  land  where  their  fathers  died, 
When  in  the  right,  they  '11  keep  thy  Honor  bright, 
When  in  the  wrong,  they  '11  die  to  set  it  right. 


20  THE    POST    OF    HONOR. 

Let  blooming  boys,  from  stagnant  cloisters  freed, 
Sneer  at  old  virtues,  and  the  Patriot's  creed, 
Forget  the  lessons  taught  at  Valor's  side, 
And  all  their  country's  honest  fame  deride. 
All  are  not  such  ;  some  glowing  blood  remains 
To  warm  the  icy  current  of  our  veins, 
Some  from  the  watch-towers  still  descry  afar 
The  faintest  glimmer  of  an  adverse  star. 

When  faction  storms,  when  meaner  statesmen  quail, 
Full  high  advanced,  our  eagle  meets  the  gale ! 
On  some  great  point  where  Honor  takes  her  stand, — 
The  Ehrenbreitstein  of  our  native  land, — 
See,  in  the  front,  to  strike  for  Freedom's  cause, 
The  mailed  Defender  of  her  rights  and  laws ! 
On  his  great  arm  behold  a  nation  lean, 
And  parcel  empire  with  the  Island  Queen  ; 
Great  in  the  council,  peerless  in  debate,  — 
Who  follows  Webster  takes  the  field  too  late. 13 

Go  track  the  globe,  its  changing  climes  explore, 
From  crippled  Europe  to  the  Arab's  shore, 


THE    POST    OF    HONOR.  21 

See  Albion's  lion  guard  her  stormy  seas, 

See  Gallia's  lilies  float  on  every  breeze, 

Roam  through  the  world,  but  find  no  brighter  names 

Than  those  true  Honor  for  Columbia  claims. 

Pause  in  that  aisle,  with  half-suspended  breath, 
Where  sceptered  England  shares  her  realm  with  Death, 
And  hear,  beneath  the  Abbey's  mouldering  towers, 
Her  hoary  minstrels  chime  the  passing  hours, 
Then  turn  from  halls,  where  blood-stained  banners  wave, 
To  peaceful  Quincy  and  its  new-made  grave, — 
From  Pride  and  Power,  enshrined  in  regal  gloom, 
To  patriot  Virtue,  and  to  Vernon's  tomb. 


XOTES. 


NOTE  1.    PAGE  1. 

The  Annual  Poem  before  the  Mercantile  Library  Association 
is  usually  delivered  on  the  same  evening,  immediately  after  an 
Address  at  the  Tremont  Temple. 

NOTE  2.    PAGE  2. 
In  boyhood's  hour, 

On  a  previous  occasion,  (in  1833,)  the  Anniversary  Poem  was 
recited  by  the  author  of  the  one  now  published. 

NOTE  3.    PAGE  3. 
For  him  ichose  eyelids  in  a  wintry  grave, 

Orlanio  Pitts,  who  was  lost  in  the  steamer  Atlantic  on  the 
27ih  of  November,  1340.  Among  the  many  victims  of  that 
fearful  storm,  no  one  was  more  deeply  lamented  than  the  subject 
of  these  lines. 

NOTE  4.    PAGE  5. 
Or  thine,  Urania, 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  explain  this  reference.  Those  who 
have  read  the  admirable  Poem  pronounced  in  1346  before  the 
Sociely  1  y  l)r.  O.  \V.  Holmes,  need  nol  be  reminded  here  of  its 
excellence. 


24  NOTES. 

NOTE  5.    PAGE  7. 
Adds  Spartan  stcj)s  to  many  a  broken  sirord  ; 

"Mother!"  said  a  Spartan  boy,  going  to  battle,  "  My  sword 
is  too  short."  "  Add  a  step  to  it,"  was  the  heroic  reply. 

NOTE  6.    PAGE  7. 
So  Ac/sow  watched, 
See  Southey's  glowing  life  of  the  great  naval  hero. 

NOTE  7.    PAGE  13. 
Yon  fountain  Nymph,  tf-c. 

This  passage  refers  to  the  beautiful  jet  so  recently  introduced 
to  add  its  graceful  beauty  to  Boston  Common.  The  old  Elm 
Tree,  standing  near  the  Pond,  is  too  well  known  to  require  a 
further  notice  here. 

NOTE  8.     PAGE  1-4. 
Rome's  cautions  bard, 

"  Fuge  magna  :  licet  sub  paupere  tecto, 
Ilexes,  et  regum  vita  prsecurre  amicos." 

HORACE. 

NOTE  9.    PAGE  16. 
O:i  Talfonrd's  page,  tf-c. 

The  "  Final  Memorials  of  Charles  Lamb,"  recently  published 
by  his  eminent  biographer,  have  added  a  new  and  solemn  inter 
est  to  the  character  of  Elia.  Such  an  exhibition  of  self-sacrifice 
under  similar  circumstances  was  never  made  before. 


NOTES.  21 

NOTE  10.    PAGE  17. 
And  thou,  great  Bard  of  never  dying  name, 

Gray  lies  buried  in  Stoke  church,  at  the  south-east  corner  of 
the  chancel.  He  desired  to  be  laid  near  the  tomb  of  his  mother, 
whom  he  had  long  and  affectionately  loved,  and  over  whose 
remains  the  pilgrim  to  this  interesting  spot  will  read  the  follow 
ing  inscription,  placed  there  by  the  author  of  the  Elegy. 

BESIDE    HER    FRIEND    AND    SISTER, 
HERE  SLEEP  THE  REMAINS  OF 

DOROTHY    GRAY, 

WIDOW,  THE  TENDER   MOTHER 

OF    MANY    CHILDREN,   ONE    OF   WHOM    ALONE 
HAD  THE  MISFORTUNE  TO  SURVIVE  HER. 


NOTE  11.    PAOE  18. 
Mdldnks  1  see  that  sainted  sister  now, 

Whoever  has  visited  the  Parisian  hospitals,  especially  those 
devoted  to  the  care  of  children,  cannot  fail  to  have  learned  a 
lesson  not  easily  to  be  forgotten.  The  patient,  gentle  devotion 
of  a  young  female,  in  the  full  flush  of  womanly  beauty,  to  the 
wants  of  a  dying  orphan-infant,  suggested  this  passage. 


NOTE  12.    PAGE  18. 
'Twas  thine,  Jerome, 

Some  difference  of  opinion  seems  to  exist  with  reference  to 
this  courageous  sailor.  That  he  worked  manfully  in  the  per 
ilous  scene  to  save  those  who  were  exposed  to  imminent  dan 
ger,  is  a  sufficient  reason  why  his  name  should  be  honorably 
mentioned  every  where. 


NOTES. 

NOTE  13.    PAGE  20. 
lllw  folloics  Webster  takes  the  field  loo  laic. 

This   closing  line  of  the   paragraph   alluding1  to   the   great 
Statesman,  was  suggested  by  tlie  well-known  quotation  :  — 

"  Who  follo\vs  Homer,  takes  the  field  too  late  ; 
Though  stout  as  Hector,  sure  of  Hector's  fate, 
A  wound,  as  from  Achilles'  spear,  lie  feels, 
Falls  and  adorns  the  Grecian's  chariot  wheels." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


FAIR    WIND. 


O,  WHO  can  tell,  that  never  sailed 

Among  the  glassy  seas, 
How  fresh  and  welcome  breaks  the  morn 

That  ushers  in  a  breeze  ! 
"  Fair  Wind  !  Fair  Wind  !  "  alow,  aloft, 

All  hands  delight  to  cry, 
As,  leaping  through  the  parted  waves, 

The  good  ship  makes  reply. 


30  FAIR    WIND. 

While  fore  and  aft,  all  staunch  and  tight, 

She  spreads  her  canvas  wide, 
The  captain  walks  his  realm,  the  deck, 

With  more  than  monarch's  pride  ;  — 
For  well  he  knows  the  sea-hird's  wings, 

So  swift  and  sure  to-day, 
Will  waft  him  many  a  league  to-night 

In  triumph  on  his  way. 


Then  welcome  to  the  rushing  blast 

That  stirs  the  waters  now,  — 
Ye  white-plumed  heralds  of  the  deep, 

Make  music  round  her  prow  ! 
Good  sea-room  in  the  roaring  gale, 

Let  stormy  trumpets  blow  ; 
But  chain  ten  thousand  fathoms  down 

The  sluggish  calm  below  ! 


ON   A   BOOK  OF  SEA-MOSSES, 


SENT   TO   AN    EMINENT   ENGLISH    POET. 


To  him  who  sang  of  Venice,  and  revealed 

How  Wealth  and  Glory  clustered  in  her  streets, 

And  poised  her  marble  domes  with  wondrous  skill, 

We  send  these  tributes,  plundered  from  the  sea. 

These  many-colored,  variegated  forms 

Sail  to  our  rougher  shores,  and  rise  and  fall 

To  the  deep  music  of  the  Atlantic  wave. 

Such  spoils  we  capture  where  the  rainbows  drop, 

Melting  in  ocean.     Here  arc  broideries  strange, 

Wrought  by  the  sea-nymphs  from  their  golden  hair, 

And  wove  by  moonlight.     Gently  turn  the  leaf. 


32  OX    A    BOOK    OF    SEA-MOSSES. 

From  narrow  cells,  scooped  in  the  rocks,  we  take 
These  fairy  textures,  lightly  moored  at  morn. 
Down  sunny  slopes,  outstretching  to  the  deep, 
We  roam  at  noon,  and  gather  shapes  like  these. 
Note  now  the  painted  webs  from  verdurous  isles, 
Festooned  and  spangled  in  sea-caves,  and  say 
What  hues  of  land  can  rival  tints  like  those, 
Torn  from  the  scarfs  and  gonfalons  of  kings 
Who  dwell  beneath  the  waters. 

Such  our  Gift, 

Culled  from  a  margin  of  the  western  world, 
And  offered  unto  Genius  in  the  old. 


WE  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep,  — 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'T  is  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  in  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence,  — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 


34  BALLAD    OF    THE   TEMPEST. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers,  — 

"  We  are  lost !  "  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 
As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 

"  Is  n't  God  upon  the  ocean, 
Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ? " 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 


SACO    FALLS. 


RUSH  on,  bold  stream  !  thou  sendest  up 
Brave  notes  to  all  the  woods  around, 
When  morning  beams  are  gathering  fast, 

And  hushed  is  every  human  sound ; 
I  stand  beneath  the  sombre  hill, 
The  stars  are  dim  o'er  fount  and  rill, 
And  still  I  hear  thy  waters  play, 
In  welcome  music,  far  away. 
Dash  on,  bold  stream  !     I  love  the  roar 
Thou  sendest  up  from  rock  and  shore. 

'Tis  night  in  heaven, —  the  rustling  leaves 
Are  whispering  of  the  coming  storm, 

And  thundering  down  the  river's  bed 
I  see  thy  lengthened,  darkling  form  ; 


30  SACO    FALLS. 

No  voices  from  the  vales  are  heard, 
The  winds  are  low,  —  each  little  bird 
Hath  sought  its  quiet,  rocking  nest, 
Folded  its  wing,  and  gone  to  rest, — 
And  still  I  hear  thy  waters  play, 
In  welcome  music,  far  away. 

The  earth  hath  many  a  gallant  show 

Of  towering  peak  and  glacier  bright, 
But  ne'er  beneath  the  glorious  moon 

Hath  nature  framed  a  lovelier  sight 
Than  thy  fair  tide,  with  diamonds  fraught, 
When  every  drop  with  light  is  caught, 
And  o'er  the  bridge  the  village  girls 
Reflect  below  their  waving  curls, 
While  merrily  thy  waters  play, 
In  welcome  music,  far  away  ! 


ON    A    PAIR    OF    ANTLERS, 

BROUGHT    FROM    GERMANY. 

GIFT,  from  the  land  of  song  and  wine,  - 
Can  I  forget  the  enchanted  day, 

When  first  along  the  glorious  Rhine 
I  heard  the  huntsman's  bugle  play, 

And  marked  the  early  star  that  dwells 

Among  the  cliffs  of  Drachenfels  ! 

Again  the  isles  of  beauty  rise  ;  — 
Again  the  crumbling  tower  appears, 

That  stands,  defying  stormy  skies, 
With  memories  of  a  thousand  years, 

And  dark  old  forests  wave  again, 

And  shadows  crowd  the  dusky  plain. 


38  OX    A    PAIR    OF    ANTLERS. 

They  brought  the  gift  that  I  might  hear 
The  music  of  the  roaring  pine,  — 

To  fill  again  my  charmed  ear 

With  echoes  of  the  Rodenstcin,  — 

With  echoes  of  the  silver  horn,  — 

Across  the  wailing  waters  borne. 

Trophies  of  spoil !  henceforth  your  place 
Is  in  this  quiet  home  of  mine  ;  — 

Farewell  the  busy,  bloody  chase, 

Mute  emblems  now  of  "auld  lang  syne," 

When  Youth  and  Hope  went  hand  in  hand 

To  roam  the  dear  old  German  land. 


SLEIGHING    SONG. 


O  SWIFT  we  go,  o'er  the  fleecy  snow, 
When  moonbeams  sparkle  round  ; 

When  hoofs  keep  time  to  music's  chime, 
As  merrily  on  we  bound. 

On  a  winter's  night,  when  hearts  are  light, 

And  health  is  on  the  wind, 
We  loose  the  rein  and  sweep  the  plain, 

And  leave  our  cares  behind. 

With  a  laugh  and  song,  we  glide  along 

Across  the  fleeting  snow  ; 
With  friends  beside,  how  swift  we  rida 

On  the  beautiful  track  below  ! 


40  SLEIGHING    SOXG. 

0  !  the  raging  sea  has  joy  for  me, 
When  gale  and  tempests  roar  ; 

But  give  me  the  speed  of  a  foaming  steed, 
And  I  '11  ask  for  the  waves  no  more. 


SUMMER  EVENING  MELODY. 


Go  forth !  the  sky  is  blue  above, 
And  cool  the  green  sod  lies  below  ; 

It  is  the  hour  that  claims  for  love 
The  halcyon  moments  as  they  flow. 

The  glow-worm  lends  her  twinkling  lamp, 
The  cricket  sings  his  soothing  strain, 

And  fainter  sounds  the  weary  tramp 
Of  footsteps  in  the  grassy  lane. 

Go  forth,  ye  pallid  sons  of  care  ! 

Too  long  your  thoughts  to  earth  are  given  ; 
To-night  sweet  music  haunts  the  air, 

And  fragrant  odors  breathe  of  heaven  ! 


VILLAGER'S  WINTER-EVENING   SONG. 


NOT  a  leaf  on  the  tree,  —  not  a  bud  in  the  hollow, 
Where  late  swung  the  blue-bell, and  blossomed  the  rose ; 

And  hushed  is  the  cry  of  the  swift-darting  swallow, 
That  circled  the  lake  in  the  twilight's  dim  close. 

Gone,  gone  are  the  woodbine  and  swcct-sccntcd  brier, 
That  bloomed  o'er  the  hillock  and  gladdened  the  vale, 

And  the  vine,  that  uplifted  its  green-pointed  spire, 
Hangs  drooping  and  scar  on  the  frost-covered  pale. 

And  hark  to  the  gush  of  the  deep- welling  fountain, 
That  prattled  and  shone  in  the  light  of  the  moon  ; 

Soon,  soon  shall  its  rushing  be  still  on  the  mountain, 
And  locked  up  in  silence  its  frolicsome  tune. 


VILLAGER'S  WINTER-EVENING  SONG.  43 

Then  heap  up  the  hearth-stone  with  dry  forest-branches, 
And  gather  about  me,  my  children,  in  glee ; 

For  cokl  on  the  upland  the  stormy  wind  launches, 
And  dear  is  the  home  of  my  loved  ones  to  me. 


CHILDREN    IN    EXILE. 


Two  Indian  Boys  were  carried  to  London  not  long  ago  for 
exhibition,  and  both  died  soon  after  their  arrival.  It  is  related 
that  one  of  them,  during  his  last  moments,  talked  incessantly  of 
the  scenes  and  sports  of  his  distant  home,  and  that  both  wished 
earnestly  to  be  taken  back  to  their  native  woods. 

FAR  in  the  dark  old  forest  glades, 

Where  kalmias  bloom  around, 
They  had  their  place  of  youthful  sport, 

Their  childhood's  hunting-ground, — 
And  swinging  lightly  in  the  vines 

That  o'er  the  wigwam  hung, 
The  golden  robins,  building  near, 

Above  their  dwelling  sung. 


CHILDREN    IN    EXILE.  45 

Each  morn  their  little  dusky  feet 

Sprang  down  the  sparkling  lea, 
To  plunge  beneath  the  glowing  stream 

Beside  the  chestnut  tree  ; 
And  when  the  hiding  squirrel's  nest 

They  sought,  far  up  the  hills, 
They  hathcd  their  reeking  foreheads  cool 

Among  the  mountain  rills. 

They  saw  the  early  silver  moon 

Peep  through  her  wavy  bower, 
And  in  her  beams  they  chased  the  bat 

Around  his  leafy  tower  ; 
And,  when  the  stars  all  silently 

Went  out  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
They  listened  low  to  merry  chimes 

Of  Summer  eveninc  rain. 


46  CHILDREN    IN    EXILE. 

These  haunts  they  missed,  —  the  city  air 

No  healthful  music  brings, — 
They  longed  to  run  through  woodland  dells, 

Where  Nature  ever  sings  ; 
And,  drooping,  mid  the  noise  and  glare, 

They  pined  for  brook  and  glen, 
And,  dying,  still  looked  fondly  back, 

And  asked  for  Home  again. 


A    VALENTINE. 


SHE  that  is  fair,  though  never  vain  or  proud, 
More  fond  of  home  than  fashion's  changing  crowd ; 
Whose  taste  refined  even  female  friends  admire, 
Dressed  not  for  show,  but  robed  in  neat  attire  ; 
She  who  has  learned,  with  mild,  forgiving  breast, 
To  pardon  frailties,  hidden  or  confest ; 
True  to  herself,  yet  willing  to  submit, 
More  swayed  by  love,  than  ruled  by  worldly  wit  ; 
Though  young,  discreet, — though  ready,  ne'er  unkind, 
Blessed  with  no  pedant's,  but  a  Woman's  mind  ;  — 
She  wins  our  hearts,  towards  her  our  thoughts  incline, 
So  at  her  door  go  leave  my  Valentine. 


COMMON    SENSE. 


SHE  came  among  the  gathering  crowd, 
A  maiden  fair,  without  pretence, 

And  when  they  asked  her  humble  name, 
She  whispered  mildly,  "  Common  Sense." 

Her  modest  garb  drew  every  eye, 

Her  ample  cloak,  her  shoes  of  leather,  — 

And  when  they  sneered,  she  simply  said, 
"  I  dress  according  to  the  weather." 

They  argued  long,  and  reasoned  loud, 
In  dubious  Hindoo  phrase  mysterious, 

While  she,  poor  child,  could  not  divine 
Why  girls  so  young  should  be  so  serious. 


COMMON    SENSE.  49 

They  knew  the  length  of  Plato's  beard, 
And  how  the  scholars  wrote  in  Saturn  ; 

She  studied  authors  not  so  deep, 
And  took  the  Bible  for  her  pattern. 

And  so  she  said,  "  Excuse  me,  friends, 
I  find  all  have  their  proper  places, 

And  Common  Sense  should  stay  at  home 
With  cheerful  hearts  and  smiling  faces.1' 


THE    DEAD. 


"Still  the  samr,  no  charm  foigot, — 
Nothing  lost  that  Time  had  given." 

FORGET  not  the  Dead,  who  have  loved,  who  have  left  us, 
Who  bend  o'er  us  now,  from  their  bright  homes  above ; 

But  believe, —  never  doubt, —  that  the  God  who  bereft  us 
Permits  them  to  mingle  with  friends  they  still  love. 

Repeat  their  fond  words,  all  their  noble  deeds  cherish, 
Speak  pleasantly  of  them  who  left  us  in  tears  ;  — 

Other  joys  may  be  lost,  but  their  names  should  not  perish 
While  time  bears  our  feet  through  the  valley  of  years. 


THE    DEAD.  51 

Dear  friends  of  our  youth !  can  we  cease  to  remember 
The  last  look  of  life,  and  the  low-whispered  prayer? 

O,  cold  be  our  hearts  as  the  ice  of  December 

When  Love's  tablets  record  no  remembrances  there. 

Then  forget  not  the  Dead,  who  are  evermore  nigh  us, 
Still  floating  sometimes  to  our  dream-haunted  bed; — 

In  the  loneliest  hour,  in  the  crowd,  they  are  by  us  ; 
Forget  not  the  Dead  !  oh,  forget  not  the  Dead  ! 


TO    A    FRIEND. 


Go,  with  a  manly  heart, 

Where  courage  leads  the  brave,  — 
High  thoughts,  not  years,  have  stamped  their  part, 

Who  shunned  the  coward's  grave. 

Clear,  to  the  eye  of  youth, 

Their  record  stands  enrolled, 
Who  held  aloft  the  flag  of  Truth, 

Nor  slept  beneath  its  fold. 

They  heard  the  trumpet  sound 

Where  hosts  to  battle  trod, 
And  marched  along  that  burning  ground  ; 

Fear  not !  they  rest  with  God. 


TO    A    FRIEND.  53 

Like  them  advance  in  love, 

And  upward  bend  thy  sight ; 
Win  Faith  through  Prayer  ;  He  rules  above 

Who  still  protects  the  right. 


DIRGE   FOR   A   YOUNG   GIRL. 


UNDERNEATH  the  sod,  low  lying, 

Dark  and  drear, 
Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  dying, 

Sorrow  here. 

Yes,  they  're  ever  bending  o'er  her, 

Eyes  that  weep  ; 
Forms,  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her, 

Vigils  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  shining 

Soft  and  fair, 
Friends  she  loved  in  tears  are  twining 

Chaplets  there. 


DIRGE    FOR    A    YOUNG    GIRL.  55 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit, 

Throned  above  ; 
Souls  like  thine  with  God  inherit 

Life  and  love  ! 


EVENTIDE. 


WRITTEN    IN   THE   COUNTRY. 


THIS  cottage  door,  this  gentle  gale, 
Hay-scented,  whispering  round, 
Yon  path-side  rose,  that  down  the  vale 
Breathes  incense  from  the  ground, 

Methinks  should  from  the  dullest  clod 
Invite  a  thankful  heart  to  God. 

But,  Lord,  the  violet,  bending  low, 

Seems  better  moved  to  praise  ; 

From  us,  what  scanty  blessings  flow, 

How  voiceless  close  our  days  :  — 

Father,  forgive  us,  and  the  flowers 
Shall  lead  in  prayer  the  vesper  hours. 


A    BRIDAL    MELODY. 


SHE  stood,  like  an  angel  just  wandered  from  heaven, 
A  pilgrim  benighted  away  from  the  skies, 

And  little  we  deemed  that  to  mortals  were  given 
Such  visions  of  beauty  as  came  from  her  eyes. 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  on  the  many  glad  faces, 
The  friends  of  her  childhood,  who  stood  by  her  side; 

But  she  shone  o'er  them  all,  like  a  queen  of  the  Graces, 
When  blushing  she  whispered  the  vow  of  a  bride. 

We  sang  an  old  song,  as  with  garlands  we  crowned  her, 
And  each  left  a  kiss  on  her  delicate  brow ; 

And  we  prayed  that  a  blessing  might  ever  surround  her, 
And  the  future  of  life  be  unclouded  as  now. 


SONG. 


All  ihe  splendid  furniture  of  his  late  residence  hail  been  sold  except  hi^ 
wife's  Harp.  That,  he  said,  was  too  closely  associated  with  the  idea  of 
herself;  it  belonged  to  the  little  story  of  their  loves;  fur,  some  of  the 
sweetest  moments  of  their  courtship  were  those  when  he  had  leaned  over 
that  instrument,  and  listened  to  the  melting  tones  of  her  voice. 

IKVINC'S  SKETCH  BOOK. 


(Jo,  leave  that  harp!  —  twined  round  its  strings 

There  's  many  a  magic  spell : 
Leave  that  untouched,  —  the  strain  it  hrings 

This  heart  remembers  well. 

Let  that  remain  !  —  all  else  beside 

Go  scatter  to  the  wind  ! 
The  chords  that  won  my  home  a  bride 

No  other  home  shall  find. 


SONG.  59 

It  hath  a  power,  though  all  unstrung 

It  lies  neglected  now  ; 
And  from  her  hands  't  will  ne'er  be  wrung, 

Till  death  these  limbs  shall  bow ! 

It  hath  no  price  since  that  sweet  hour 

She  tuned  it  first,  and  played 
Love's  evening  hymn  within  the  bower 

Her  youthful  fingers  made. 

A  spirit  like  the  summer's  night 

Hangs  o'er  that  cherished  lyre, 
And  whispers  of  the  calm  moonlight 

Are  trembling  from  the  wire  ; 

Still  on  my  ear  her  young  voice  falls, 

Still  floats  that  melody,  — 
On  each  loved  haunt  its  music  calls,  — 

Go  !  leave  that  harp  and  me. 


BROKEN    VOWS. 

SUGGESTED    BY   THE   PORTRAIT  OF   A    YOUNG  FLORENTINE   GIIU, 
AT   VIENNA. 


SHE  has  learned  a  sad  lesson,  —  she  trusted  away 
A  heart  that  loved  wildly,  but  O,  how  sincere  ! 

She  dreamed  that  such  happiness  could  not  decay, 
But  the  full-flowing  fountain  has  shrunk  to  a  tear. 

She  thought  that  the  sun,  which  at  morn  shone  so  bright, 
Would  surely  shine  on  till  the  starlight  appeared  ;  — 

But  sorrow  came  down  on  the  cold  wings  of  night, 
And  all  her  youth  cherished  was  trampled  and  scared ; 


BROKEN    VOWS.  61 

The  being  she  worshipped,  as  angels  adore,  — 
The  bird  she  had  nestled  so  close  to  her  heart, — 

That  one  !  O,  no  other  can  ever  restore 

The  joy  of  her  Eden,  —  from  him  she  must  part ! 

She  must  strive  to  forget  him  ;  and  never  again 

Send  a  dove  to  the  world  with  the  hope  of  return;  — 

She  must  close  every  portal,  but  sighing  and  pain 
In  a  bosom  that  sorrow  can  never  unlearn ! 


BURIAL  OF  A  GERMAN  EMIGRANT'S  CHILD  AT  SEA. 


No  flowers  to  lay  upon  his  little  breast, 
No  passing-bell  to  call  his  spirit  home, 

But  gliding  gently  to  his  place  of  rest, 

Parting,  'mid  tears,  at  eve,  the  ocean  foam. 

No  turf  was  round  him,  —  but  the  lifting  surge 
Entombed  those  lids  that  closed  so  calm  and  slow, 

While  solemn  winds,  like  a  cathedral  dirge, 
Sighed  o'er  his  form  a  requiem  sad  and  low. 

Ah,  who  shall  tell  the  maddening  grief  of  love 

That  swept  her  heart-strings  in  that  hour  of  woe  ?  - 

Weep,  childless  mother,  but  O,  look  above 
For  aid  that  only  Heaven  can  now  bestow. 


BURIAL  OF  A  GERMAN  EMIGRANT'S  CHILD  AT   SEA.      63 

Gaze,  blue-eyed  mourner,  on  that  silken  hair,  — 
Weep,  but  remember  that  thy  God  will  stand 

Beside  thee  here  in  all  this  wild  despair, 

As  on  the  green  mounds  of  thy  Fatherland. 


SOXG 


OVER    THE    CRADLE    OF    TWO    INFANT    SISTERS,    SLEEPING. 


.SWEET  be  their  rest !  no  ghastly  things 
To  scare  their  dreams,  assemble  here  ; 

But  safe  beneath  good  angels1  wings 
May  each  repose  from  year  to  year. 

Cheerful,  like  some  long  summer-day, 
May  all  their  waking  moments  flow, 

Happier,  as  run  life's  sands  away, 
Unstained  by  sin,  untouched  by  woe. 


SONG.  65 

As  now  they  sleep,  serene  and  pure, 
Their  little  arms  entwined  in  love, 

So  may  they  live,  obey,  endure, 

And  shine  with  yon  bright  host  above. 


M.  W.  B. 


THEY  tell  me  thou  art  laid  to  rest, 

Companion  of  my  happiest  years  ! 
That  thou  hast  joined  the  loved  and  blest, 

Whose  early  graves  are  wet  with  tears, — 
That  I  shall  never  hear  again 

The  voice  that  charmed  my  boyhood's  ear, 
Nor  meet  among  the  haunts  of  men 

Thy  honest  grasp  of  love  sincere. 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  my  buried  friend  ! 

Thy  step  was  gayest  in  the  ring,  — 
My  thoughts  far  back  through  childhood  wend, 

And  can  I  now  thy  requiem  sing  ? 


M.    \V.  B.  67 

Alas  !  I  feel  't  is  all  in  vain,  — 

Before  such  grief  my  spirits  bow,  — 

Farewell !  I  cannot  trace  the  pain 

That  weighs  upon  my  heart-strings  now. 


TO  ONE   BENEATH  THE   WAVES. 


COME  back  from  Memory's  mourning  urn, 

And  bless  my  sight  again  ; 
For  now  in  restless  dreams  I  turn 

To  clasp  thy  hand,  —  in  vain  ! 
I  bid  thy  gentle  spirit  come 

And  look  once  more  on  me  ; 
But  thou  art  slumbering  where  the  foam 

Rolls  madly  o'er  the  sea. 

Alas  !  how  soon  our  better  years 

To  tempest  winds  are  blown, 
And  all  our  hopes,  and  joys,  and  fears 

Alike  are  widely  strown  ;  — 


TO    ONE    BEXEATH    THE    WAVES.  69 

She  rests  in  yonder  village-mound, 

"Who  should  have  been  thy  bride, 
And  thou  art  sleeping  'neath  the  sound 

Of  ocean's  flowing  tide. 


TO    A    PAINTER. 


I  'VE  sailed  an  ocean  to  behold  the  Rhine, 

That  world  of  beauty  bursting  on  the  view,  — 

Rut  now  your  canvas  wafts  to  me  the  vine 

And  rock-clad  hills  long  since  I  wandered  through. 

T\vin-castlcd  River,  far  away  no  more,  — 

What  further  need  the  Atlantic  wave  to  plough  ? 

You  Ve  brought  old  Coblentz  to  my  very  door, 
And  Ehrenbreitstein  is  my  neighbor  now  ! 


TO    A    MALIGNANT    CRITIC. 


RAIL  at  him,  brave  spirit !  surround  him  with  foes ! 

The  wolf's  at  his  door,  and  there  's  none  to  defend  ; 
He  's  as  "  poor  as  a  crow  ;  "  give  him  lustier  blows, 

And  do  n't  be  alarmed,  for  he  has  n't  a  friend. 

Now  twirl  your  red  steel  in  the  wound  you  have  made, — 
His  wife  lies  a-dying,  his  children  are  dead  ; 

He  '11  soon  be  alone,  man,  so  don't  be  afraid, 

But  give  him  a  thrust  that  will  keep  down  his  head. 

lie  has  n't  a  sixpence  to  buy  his  wife's  shroud, 
lie  "  writes  for  a  living,"  so  stab  him  again  ! 

Raise  a  laugh,  as  he  timidly  shrinks  from  the  crowd, 
And  hunt  him  like  blood-hound,  most  valiant  of  men  ! 


72  TO    A    MALIGNANT    CRITIC. 

Ha  !  finished  at  last ; — there  he  hangs  ;  cut  him  down  ; 

"A  fine  manly  forehead  !  "  I  hear  you  exclaim  ;  — 
Now  choose  your  next  victim,  to  tickle  the  town, 

And  your  heart-pointed  pen  shall  reap  plenty  of  fame  ! 


A    WELCOME  TO   SAMUEL   LOVER. 


A  WELCOME,  Sam,  throughout  the  land, 

While  roaming  is  your  lot ;  — 
Reception  warm  we  give  to  some, 

To  you  we  give  it  hot  ! 

For  ships  are  scarce,  that  anchor  here, 

Can  boast  a  lad  like  you  ;  — 
What  is  there,  Sam,  you  never  tried, 

That  Handy  craft  can  do  ? 

Your  voice,  we  know  it  well,  Sam, — 

We  heard  it  long  ago, 
In  the  sweet-souled  "  angel's  whisper," 

Where  the  "  four-leaved  shamrocks  "  grow, 


74  A    WELCOME    TO    SAMUEL    LOVER. 

And  your  merry  laugh,  we  've  heard,  Sam, 

The  hearty  Irish  roar, — 
We  held  our  sides  with  Rory,  Sam, 

And  now  we  cry  for  More. 

'T  is  a  greeting,  Sam,  unstinted, 

That  we  offer  to  the  true,  — 
And  a  welcome,  strong  and  hearty,  Sam, 

Should  meet  a  man  like  you. 


LIFE    AT    NIAGARA. 


AN   EPISTLE   FROM   THE   FALLS. 


DEAR  N.  :  While  the  rainbows  are  spanning  the  Falls, 
And  a  lusty  Scotch  infant  next  door  raises  squalls,  — 
While  the  frantic  young  mother  shouts  madly  for  milk, 
In  tones  not  so  soft,  quite,  as  satin  or  silk,  — 
Your  friend,  grown  poetic,  has  snatched  up  his  pen, 
To  dash  off  a  line  to  "  the  best  of  young  men." 

You've  been  at  the  Falls,  and  they  can't  be  described, 

Though  Coleridge  himself  from  the  tomb  should  be  bribed  ; 

Pile  mountains  of  paper,  and  flood  them  with  ink, 

And  Niagara  is  dry,  though  the  reader  should  sink. 

But  there  's  life  here,  my  friend,  —  closely  packed  to  be  sure, 

For  fashion  condenses  what  man  must  endure  : 


76  LIFE    AT    NIAGARA. 

Not  a  bed  to  be  had,  not  a  chair,  or  a  block, 

And  the  only  spare  table  is  old  Table  Rock. 

How  glorious  a  visit,  were  taverns  and  gongs 

But  banished  a  week  to  where  Fashion  belongs, 

To  tramp  through  the  forest,  with  no  charge  of  fares, 

In  a  pair  of  brogans,  such  as  Audubon  wears ; 

To  meet  a  lithe  Indian,  all  stately  and  stark, 

And  "  put  up  "  a  few  days  in  his  wigwam  of  bark  ;  — 

Gods !  a  walk  through  the  woods,  by  the  light  of  the  stars, 

Would  outweigh  all  the  lamps,  and  the  Lcwiston  cars  ! 

But  here  's  life  at  the  Falls  —  from  a  year  to  fourscore  — 

(And  I  think  by  the  sound  there  's  a  day  at  next  door  ;) 

Here  are  members  of  Congress,  away  from  their  seats, 

Though  sure  to  be  there  when  the  dinner-gong  beats  ; 

Here  are  waiters,  so  eager  your  viands  to  snatch, 

That  they  leap  down  the  stairs  like  a  multiplied  Patch  ; 

To  the  sound  of  sweet  music  they  nimbly  appear, 

And  whisk  off  your  corn  while  they  tickle  your  car. 

Here  are  pensive  young  preachers,  dressed  quite  comme  il  faut, 

In  coats  black  as  night,  and  cravats  pure  as  snow  ; 


LIFE    AT    NIAGARA.  77 

Rich  East  India  governors,  heavy  as  gold, 

Hanging  round  like  weak  sun-flowers,  yellow  and  old  ; 

Artistical  talent,  with  sketch-book  displayed, 

Drawing  very  bad  water  in  very  poor  shade  ; 

Fat  cockneys  from  Charing-Cross ;  belles  from  Madrid, 

Whose  long  jewelled  fingers  outrival  Jamschid  ; 

Superb  English  maidens,  with  swan-swimming  gait, 

Who  float  round  the  Rapids  like  Junos  in  state  ;  — 

But  the  brightest-eyed  daughters,  the  best  string  of  pearls, 

Represent  in  their  beauty  our  own  Yankee  Girls. 

Here  cluster  the  fair,  and  the  plain,  and  the  prim, 

Round  the  gallant  and  gay,  whiskered  up  to  the  brim  ; 

Here  's  a  biped  in  boots,  a  most  exquisite  ass, 

Who  looks  at  the  Falls  through  a  golden-rimmed  glass ; 

And  to-day  such  a  waist,  N.,  I  saw  on  the  Rock, 

That  to  furnish  the  brains  seemed  a  slight  waste  of  stock. 

Here  's  a  lively  old  lady,  all  feathers  and  fans, 

Who  trots  about  peddling  her  Susans  and  Anns  ; 

And  a  drab-colored  Quaker,  I  've  seen  more  than  twice 

Take  a  sly  glass  of  something  in  water  and  ice. 


78  LIFE    AT    NIAGARA. 

But  brief  let  me  be,  while  the  dull  curfew  tolls  ; 
Niagara  still  lives  !  still  it  rushes,  and  rolls  ;  — 
There  is  no  spot  on  earth  where  I'd  sooner  meet  you, 
And  the  friends  we  both  love,  N.,  the  choice  and  the  true, 
Though  a  Downeastcrn  editor  published  the  lie 
That  this  glorious  old  cataract 's  "  all  in  my  eye  !  " 


THE    ALARMED    SKIPPER 


"  [t  was  an  ancient  Mariner." 

MANY  a  long,  long  year  ago, 

Nantucket  skippers  had  a  plan 
Of  finding  out,  though  "  lying  low," 

How  near  New  York  their  schooners  ran. 

They  greased  the  lead  heforc  it  fell, 

And  then,  by  sounding  through  the  night,  - 

Knowing  the  soil  that  stuck,  so  well, 

They  always  guessed  their  reckoning  right. 


80  THE    ALARMED    SKIPPER. 

A  skipper  grey,  whose  eyes  were  dim, 
Could  tell,  by  tasting,  just  the  spot, 

And  so  below  he  'd  "  dowse  the  glim  "  — 
After,  of  course,  his  "  something  hot." 

Snug  in  his  berth,  at  eight  o'clock, 
This  ancient  skipper  might  be  found  ; 

No  matter  how  his  craft  would  rock, 

He  slept  —  for  skippers'  naps  are  sound  ! 

The  watch  on  deck  would  now  and  then 
Run  down  and  wake  him,  with  the  lead  ;  - 

He  'd  up,  and  taste,  and  tell  the  men 
How  many  miles  they  went  ahead. 

One  night,  't  was  Jotham  Warden's  watch, 
A  curious  wag,  —  the  pedlar's  son, — 

And  so  he  mused,  (the  wanton  wretch,) 
"  To-night  I  '11  have  a  grain  of  fun. 


THE    ALARMED    SKIPPER.  81 

"  We're  all  a  set  of  stupid  fools 

To  think  the  skipper  knows  by  tasting 

What  ground  he  's  on,  —  Nantucket  schools 
Don 't  teach  such  stuff,  with  all  their  basting  !  " 

And  so  he  took  the  well-greased  lead, 

And  rubbed  it  o'er  a  box  of  earth 
That  stood  on  deck —  (a  parsnip  bed)  — 

And  then  he  sought  the  skipper's  berth. 

"  Where  are  we  now,  Sir  ?     Please  to  taste." 
The  skipper  yawned,  put  out  his  tongue, 

Then  oped  his  eyes  in  wondrous  haste, 
And  then  upon  the  floor  he  sprung ! 

The  skipper  stormed,  and  tore  his  hair, 

Thrust  on  his  boots,  and  roared  to  Marden,  — 

" Nantucket 's  sunk,  and  here  we  are 

Right  over  old  Marm  Hacketfs  garden  !  " 

6 


COMMERCE. 


PRONOUNCED    BEFORE    THE    BOSTON    MERCANTILE    LIBRARY 
ASSOCIATION,    SEPTEMBER    13,  1838. 


COMMERCE. 


HARP  of  the  sea  !  bold  minstrel  of  the  deep  ! 
Sound  from  your  halls  where  proud  armadas  sleep  ; 
Ring  from  the  waves  a  strain  of  other  days, 
When  first  rude  Commerce  poured  her  feeble  rays ; 
Tell  what  rich  burdens  India's  princes  bore 
Of  balmy  spices  to  the  Arab's  shore  ; 
What  mines  of  wealth  on  Traffic's  dauntless  wings 
Sailed  down  from  Egypt  to  the  Syrian  kings ; 
By  what  mischance,  those  wonders  of  their  hour, 
The  fleets  of  Carthage,  and  the  Tyrian  power, 
WTere  lost,  and  vanished  like  the  meteor  ray 
That  flashes  nightly  through  the  milky-way  : 


86  COMMERCE. 

Sing  of  the  Grecian  States,  that  warlike  band 
Which  held  the  ocean  in  its  dread  command  ; 
Of  Caesar's  glory,  when  his  navies  furled 
Their  sails  before  the  granary  of  the  world  ; 
Of  Afric's  spoils  by  Vandals  rent  away, 
And  Eastern  empires  waning  to  decay. 

Stand  forth,  old  Venice  —  Genoa  —  Pisa  —  Rome  ! 
With  all  your  galleys  on  the  crested  foam  ; 
Say,  where  are  now  your  royal  merchants  seen  ? 
Go  ask  the  Red-Cross  Knight  at  Palestine  ! 

But  lo  !  what  crowds  on  Albion's  shores  arise, 
Of  noble  fleets  with  costly  merchandize  ; 
What  swift- winged  ships  rush  in  from  every  strand, 
To  swell  the  coffers  of  her  teeming  land, 
While  lofty  flags  proclaim  on  every  breeze 
The  Island  Queen,  —  the  Mistress  of  the  Seas  ! 

Look  to  the  West,  —  the  Elysian  borders  view  ! 
See  where  from  Palos  speeds  yon  wearied  crew : 


COMMERCE.  87 

Haste,  ere  the  vision  to  your  eye  grows  dim, — 
O'er  rock  and  forest  comes  the  Mayflower's  hymn  : 
Fleet  as  the  night-star  fades  in  brightening  day, 
That  exiled  pilgrim-band  has  passed  away; 
But,  where  their  anchors  marked  a  dreary  shore, 
When  first  thanksgivings  rose  for  perils  o'er, 
A  nation's  banner  fills  the  murmuring  air, 
And  freedom's  ensign  wantons  gaily  there. 

O,  glorious  stripes  !  no  stain  your  honor  mars  ; 
Wave  !  ever  wave  !  our  country's  flag  of  stars  ! 
Float  till  old  Time  shall  shroud  the  sun  in  gloom, 
And  this  proud  empire  seeks  its  laureled  tomb. 


Trace  we  the  exile  from  his  mother's  arms, 
Through  traffic's  din,  its  mazes  and  alarms  ; 
And  as  remembrance  paints  his  swift  career, 
From  the  rocked  cradle  to  the  noiseless  bier ; 
A  lesson  learn,  —  that  life's  divinest  gem 
Is  not  wealth's  boon  or  glory's  diadem. 


88  COMMERCE. 

Look  through  the  casement  of  yon  village-school, 
Where  now  the  pedant  with  his  oaken  rule 
Sits  like  Augustus  on  the  imperial  throne, 
Between  two  poets  yet  to  fame  unknown : 
While  restless  Horace  pinions  martyred  flies, 
Some  younger  Virgil  fills  the  room  with  sighs  ; 
Who,  suffering  now  for  one  untimely  laugh, 
Ere  long  will  write  his  masters  epitaph  ; 
Forgetting  in  his  lines  and  comments  blund 
The  painful  ridges  on  his  blistered  hand. 

And  that  small  rogue,  how  slily  he  inweaves 
The  Pickwick  papers  with  his  Murray's  leaves  ; 
The  race  of  nouns  lies  dim  as  sunken  isles, 
While  Mr.  Weller  lights  his  face  with  smiles; 
Or  Mrs.  Bardell  weeps,  —  or  lawyers  plead,— 
His  task  remains  unconned,  the  wag  will  read. 

Struggling  with  Colburn  at  the  Rule  of  Three, 
Yon  pallid  votary  at  the  window  see  : 


COMMERCE.  89 

What  though  he  linger,  with  a  wistful  eye, 
Upon  the  dial  as  the  sun  mounts  high  ; 
Impatient  boy  !  the  man  will  soon  complain, 
Too  swift  the  moments  for  his  hours  of  gain  ; 
Too  fleetly  pass  the  sands  of  life  away, 
And  death  may  claim  him  as  a  miser,  gray. 

Panting  with  joy  to  leave  his  native  vale, 
He  leaps  unarmed  where  scarce  a  veteran's  mail 
Would  shield  from  sin  in  all  its  cunning  forms, 
Or  keep  secure  where  vice  in  legions  swarms  ; 
Yet  leaves  he  not  his  peaceful  home  unwarned, 
Though  many  an  earnest  prayer  perchance  is  scorned. 

In  fashion  now,  our  hero  strives  to  reign, 
Sports  the  last  hat,  the  latest  Paris  cane  ; 
Hangs  out  long  clusters  of  superfluous  hair, 
And  apes  Lord  Byron  with  his  throat  all  bare  ; 
Makes  one,  perhaps,  of  that  queer  tribe  of  men, 
Who  play,  in  dress,  part  fool,  part  Saracen. 


90  COMMERCE. 

Behold  him  now,  just  launching  into  life, 
Teeming  with  hope,  with  all  her  visions  rife ; 
His  youthful  dreams  stand  forth  in  real  forms, 
The  world  before  him,  —  he  to  brave  its  storms. 
And  think  you  now,  as  homeward  oft  he  hies 
From  daily  toil,  no  tears  bedew  his  eyes  ? 
Forgets  he  now  the  simple  evening  prayer, 
Instilled  in  childhood  by  parental  care  ? 
Lingers  not  memory  fondly  round  the  place 
His  boyhood  knew,  lit  by  a  sister's  face  ? 
Throbs  not  his  heart  with  some  keen  darts  of  pain, 
As  he  recalls  his  banished  home  in  vain  ? 
Ah !  though  long  years  some  pangs  away  may  steal, 
There  is  a  charm  that  he  will  always  feel  ; 
And,  though  Wealth's  eye  on  Feeling  coldly  dwells, 
And  sneering  points  her  to  his  hoarded  cells, 
That  fairy  Eden  shall  for  ever  smile, 
And  win  him  back  with  many  a  loving  wile. 

O,  happiest  he,  whose  riper  years  retain 
The  hopes  of  youth,  unsullied  by  a  stain ! 


COMMERCE.  91 

His  eve  of  life  in  calm  content  shall  glide 
Like  the  still  streamlet  to  the  ocean  tide  : 
No  gloomy  cloud  hangs  o'er  his  tranquil  day ; 
No  meteor  lures  him  from  his  home  astray ; 
For  him  there  glows  with  glittering  beam  on  high 
Love's  changeless  star  that  leads  him  to  the  sky  ; 
Still  to  the  past  he  sometimes  turns  to  trace 
The  mild  expression  of  a  mother's  face, 
And  dreams,  perchance,  as  oft  in  earlier  years, 
The  low,  sweet  music  of  her  voice  he  hears. 


The  mails  are  in ;  lo,  what  cadaverous  crowds 
Arc  rushing  now,  like  spectres  from  their  shrouds  ; 
In  vain  the  dinner  waits,  the  wife  looks  sad, 
The  children  whine,  the  sweet-toned  cook  goes  mad  ; 
They  stir  not,  move  not  from  the  busy  walk, 
But  all  is  solemn  as  an  Indian  talk. 
Say,  would  you  tempt  that  earnest  group  to  dine, 
With  smoking  venison  and  the  raciest  wine  ? 
Sooner  will  rabid  men  to  fountains  take, 
Than  those  same  worthies  their  intent  forsake. 


92  COMMERCE. 

Go,  ask  them  now  to  buy  the  last  Gazette, 
Or  Daily  Journal,  while  the  council 's  met ; 
And,  if  in  peace  you  wend  your  devious  way, 
You  '11  swim  unharmed  the  gulf  of  Florida  ! 

Trade  hath  its  bubbles  !    Eastward  where  the  sun 
Throws  off  his  night-cap  when  his  nap  is  done, 
Lo,  how  they  rise  !  what  shouts  on  every  hand 
Proclaim  the  glories  of  our  timber  land  ! 
O,  who  will  credit  such  fantastic  tales 
While  banks  suspend,  and  India-rubber  fails  ; 
While  fancy-stocks  hang  trembling  in  the  air, 
And  unwhipped  rogues  the  guise  of  virtue  wear : 

Hark,  to  the  cry  !  an  embryo  city  dawns 
On  some  dyspeptic  in  his  morning  yawns  ; 
Up  spring  tall  forests  in  his  magic  dream, 
And  high-crowned  turrets  in  the  distance  gleam  ; 
Short  is  his  meal ;  straightway  a  plan  is  drawn  ; 
Here  lies  a  railroad,  there  a  verdant  lawn  ; 


COMMERCE.  93 

Here  steamboats  land,  and  where,  since  time  began, 
A  stagnant  moat,  ne'er  visited  by  man, 
Has  stood  unsung,  unhonored  in  the  shade, 
Behold  the  changes  in  a  morning  made  ! 

The  stock  sells  well,  the  brewer  quits  his  beer,  — 
Who  picks  up  dollars  when  doubloons  are  near  ? 
The  shares  go  briskly  off,  the  business  thrives, 
The  shopman  heeds  not  now  his  tens  and  fives  ; 
For  who  would  stop  to  measure  calico, 
While  floods  of  gold  through  timber  uplands  flow  ; 
Who  sings  a  tune  to  three-and-six  per  yard, 
While  his  next  neighbour  plays  a  nobler  card  ? 
Not  he,  indeed  !  ambition  points  the  aim,  — 
He  must  keep  horses,  and  grow  fat  on  game. 

Mark  now  the  fall!     Before  the  season's  late, 
Our  wealthy  lord  must  visit  his  estate  ; 
And,  as  his  jaunt  will  raise  some  small  alarms 
Among  the  tenants  of  the  adjoining  farms, 


94 


COMMERCE. 


He  takes  the  statutes  of  the  State  of  Maine, 

His  new  brown  coat,  his  golden-headed  cane, 

Kisses  his  children,  bids  his  wife  adieu, 

And  ere  he  knows  it,  half  his  journey  's  through. 

With  map  unrolled,  he  leaves  the  village  inn, 

Looking  like  Fusbos  when  he  conquers  Finn ; 

Meets  on  his  way  some  tiller  of  the  ground, 

Perhaps  his  own  —  who  knows  ?  —  he  's  hale  and  sound. 

The  great  man  stops,  the  yeoman  rolls  his  quid, 

Nor  doffs  his  beaver,  as  the  landlord  did. 

"Are  you  employed,  Sir,  on  the  John  Smith  Farm  ?  " 

Our  shopman  asks,  his  anger  waxing  warm. 

"  They  say  John  Smith  owns  yonder  swamp  down  there,1' 

Replies  the  ploughman,  straightening  out  his  hair; 

"  But,  as  to  farming,  it  is  very  clear, 

He  '11  find  more  black  snakes  than  potatoes  here." 

O,  short-lived  bliss  !  the  shopman  looks  around, 
And  finds  his  farm  a  tract  of  barren  ground ; 
His  forest  trees  to  dwarfish  shrubs  decline, 
His  turrets  vanish,  nor  can  he  divine 


COMMERCE.  95 

With  what  intent  a  railroad  could  be  made 
To  such  a  spot,  where  neither  lawn,  nor  glade, 
Nor  aught  inviting  to  the  expectant  eye, 
Relieves  the  dullness  of  a  frowning  sky. 

The  bubble  's  burst !  the  dupe  returns  in  haste, 
Makes  a  small  entry  on  his  dusty  waste, 
Ere  yet  the  rumbling  of  the  mail  has  ceased, 
"  Profit  and  loss  to  cities  lying  east ; " 
And  he  who  revelled  on  uncounted  means, 
Will  sell  his  township  for  a  mess  of  greens. 

And  is  this  all  of  life  ?  I  hear  you  ask  ; 
Are  there  no  flowers  to  deck  our  weary  task  ? 
Glows  not  the  merchant's  brow  with  more  than  these, 
The  hope  of  gain  and  wealth  beyond  the  seas  ? 
Cling  not  around  his  heart  some  happier  ties, 
Fraught  with  bright  fancies,  linked  with  warmer  skies  ? 
A  slave  to  gold,  must  man  in  bondage  toil, 
And  sweat  for  ever  o'er  the  accursed  soil  ? 


96  COMMERCE. 

There  are,  thank  Heaven,  beneath  this  fitful  dome, 
Some  leaflets  floating  near  affection's  home  ; 
Some  cloudless  skies  that  smile  on  scenes  below, 
Some  changeless  hues  in  life's  wide  spanning  bow. 
So  let  us  live,  that  if  misfortune's  blast 
Comes  like  a  whirlwind  to  our  hearths  at  last, 
Sunbeams  may  break  from  one  small  spot  of  blue, 
To  guide  us  safe  life's  dreary  desert  through. 

Time-honored  city  !  be  it  ours  to  stand 
In  thy  broad  portals,  armed  with  traffic's  wand  ; 
To  keep  undimmed  and  clear  thy  deathless  name, 
That  beams  unclouded  on  the  rolls  of  fame  ; 
And  foster  Honor,  till  the  world  shall  say, 
Trade  hath  no  worthier  home  than  yon  bright  bay. 

But  brief  my  lay  ;  the  fairy-land  of  song 
Holds  me  a  truant  in  its  maze  too  long ; 
Yet  chide  me  not,  if,  lingering  on  the  shore, 
I  cast  one  pebble  to  the  ripples  more. 


COMMERCE.  97 

Our  Yankee  ships  !  in  fleet  career, 

They  linger  not  behind, 
Where  gallant  sails  from  other  lands 

Court  favoring  tide  and  wind. 
With  banners  on  the  breeze,  they  leap 

As  gaily  o'er  the  foam, 
As  stately  barks  from  prouder  seas 

That  long  have  learned  to  roam. 


The  Indian  wave  with  luring  smiles 

Swept  round  them  bright  to-day  ; 
And  havens  to  Atlantic  isles 

Are  opening  on  their  way  ; 
Ere  yet  these  evening  shadows  close, 

Or  this  frail  song  is  o'er, 
Full  many  a  straining  mast  will  rise 

To  greet  a  foreign  shore. 

7 


98  COMMERCE. 

High  up  the  lashing  northern  deep, 

Where  glimmering  watch-lights  beam, 
Away  in  beauty  where  the  stars 

In  tropic  brightness  gleam  ; 
Where'er  the  sea-bird  wets  her  beak  ; 

Or  blows  the  stormy  gale  ; 
On  to  the  water's  farthest  verge 

Our  ships  majestic  sail. 


They  dip  their  keels  in  every  stream 

That  swells  beneath  the  sky  ; 
And  where  old  ocean's  billows  roll, 

Their  lofty  penants  fly  : 
They  furl  their  sails  in  threatening  clouds 

That  float  across  the  main, — 
To  link  with  love  earth's  distant  bays 

In  many  a  golden  chain. 


COMMERCE.  i)i) 

They  deck  our  halls  with  sparkling  gems 

That  shone  on  Orient  strands, 
And  garlands  round  the  hills  they  bind, 

From  far-off  sunny  lands  ; 
But  we  will  ask  no  gaudy  wreath 

From  foreign  clime  or  realm, 
While  safely  glides  our  ship  of  state 

With  Genius  at  the  helm. 


